


Fast Cars & Freedom

by thatcrazyhippie



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fast Cars, Fluff, Freedom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcrazyhippie/pseuds/thatcrazyhippie
Summary: Steve remembers. Freedom looks, tastes, feels like Natasha Romanov.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	Fast Cars & Freedom

Steve remembers. 

That lazy summer night; warm wind, cold beer, and a gorgeous convertible. Slick black and deep, fiery red, top down and radio turned up. He remembers Natasha's smoky voice around the lip of the amber bottle, lips smiling around the glass, jade eyes alight with _something_. 

Something he's not sure he's ever seen in her before. A spark of mischief, of playfulness, of _freedom._

He remembers easy conversation and light bickering and how she'd barely contained her grin. The Troubleman soundtrack on his phone and how she'd dramatically crooned every word along with Marvin Gaye. He remembers the twist of red hair behind her, spilling over her shoulders when she tilted her head back in a fit of laughter. 

They didn't have anything to lose, then. Nothing was at stake. They could drive and laugh and talk and sit on the hood in that empty field with cold pizza and rattling nerves like a couple of teenagers about to kiss for the first time. He could taste pepperoni and grease on her lips and not care because she also tasted like temptation and danger and freedom and doing what they weren't supposed to be. 

_Yes._

Steve remembers the freedom. 

It's the taste of beer and pizza and summer and feeling like a teenager all over again. It's watching red hair twist in the wind as she throws her head back to laugh and thinking nothing will ever be that beautiful. 

It's knocking on her apartment door. It's barely being able to breathe when she finally answers in a worn t-shirt and thin running shorts. It's her voice wrapping all of her questions, all of the reasons he shouldn't be there, in a breath of his name. "Steve..." 

"I don't care, anymore, Nat." 

Freedom is the taste of her mouth and the feel of her arms around his shoulders and the sound of the door slamming shut behind them. It's salt and sweat and sex and her name whispered like a prayer and his name pouring out like liquid fire in the raspy smoke of her voice. 

Freedom looks, tastes, and feels like Natasha Romanov. 


End file.
